


Kilonovae

by Macronova



Series: The Quantum Mechanics of You and I [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Changing Tenses, Gratuitous use of parentheses, M/M, Mentioned Akaashi Keiji, Mentioned Bokuto Koutarou, Mentioned Kageyama Tobio, Mentioned Sugawara Koushi, Mentioned Yachi Hitoka, Non-Linear Narrative, So much angst, There’s a lot of mentioned characters..., Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macronova/pseuds/Macronova
Summary: When two neutron stars orbit one another, they form what is known as a binary neutron star. As a result of the effect that gravitational waves has on them, the two stars will spend the entirety of their lives together; in time spiralling inwards from the force of gravitational radiation. Eventually, the binary will begin to grow precipitately unstable until both stars launch themselves at one another, and it is from this collision that one of three outcomes will be produced:The first is that when they merge, they will join together to form a more massive neutron star; the second is, should the mass of their combined remnants be greater than the Tolman-Oppenheimer-Volkoff limit, their merger will result in the formation of a black hole; the third and final outcome is the rarest. In this scenario, their unification will create what is known as a kilonova, emitting a short gamma-ray burst with a duration of under two seconds. In the end, each of these outcomes will always have one thing in common: a lifetime they will have spent together, yet it is only as they draw their dying breaths that finally they meet.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: The Quantum Mechanics of You and I [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754170
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Kilonovae

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, I am well aware that my science is a gross oversimplification, don’t come for me.)

**Epilogue, 2018**

As the birds, in their surprise, burst into flight the rustling of leaves stopped; the wind coming to a chilling standstill. He felt nothing. Nothing at all. Throwing the gun to the ground, he walked away from the melancholic field. 

_I should’ve disappeared._

**Venice, 2000**

With a grunt of frustration, Iwaizumi Hajime all but slams the worn-out folder shut, devastatingly defeated. He allows for it to drop onto the table with a dull _thud_ , nearly knocking his cappuccino over in the process. Leaning into the stiff back of his chair, he closes his eyes, wondering if he ought to fling himself into one of Venice’s various canals; he imagines capitulating himself to the whims of the water and allowing it to wash him away to some place nice. He can’t actually swim, but at least it would give him a moment’s relief, brief and measly as it may be, before proceeding to drown the life out of him. When he re-opens his eyes, they compulsively flicker to where the folder continues to lounge on the table, not a care in the world, _mocking_ him. 

He had been meant to return to Japan on the 12th of July, yet it is near the middle of August that he finds himself drinking a soured cappuccino in a small _piazza_ tucked away in the middle-of-nowhere, Venice. On his phone there are three missed calls: two from Ushijima, one from Kuroo (both of whom he’s not particularly eager to converse with, at present moment).

 _It’ll be easy_ , they had said. _A piece of cake!_ they had said. _You’ll be back in Japan in no time_. Hajime scoffs. _Piece of cake, my ass_. There’s a buzzing in his pocket ( _speak of the devil…_ ), and it is with great reluctance that he pulls out his agency-issued _BlackBerry_.

_– Incoming call from Ushijima –_

Hajime knows that he’s skating on thin ice, but he also knows that taking the call will bring absolutely nothing new to the table. So he idly waits it, and the inevitable subsequent attempt (Ushijima _seriously_ needs to learn when to quit), out. He lifts the folder back up, effectively obscuring his view of the compact hand-held device that continues buzzing incessantly on the red-white-checkered table-cloth.

How many times has he looked this god-damned file over? Hajime has lost count. Last night, he had spent _five hours straight_ re-reading its contents, page after fucking page. It wasn’t until the letters had begun to float off of the pages that he _finally_ gave in to the extreme exhaustion that rattled his bones. 

Hajime pinches the bridge of his nose. If what Shimizu Kiyoko had told him, the evening prior, rang true, then he had already failed his assignment: Kageyama would be in Rome by now, and by the time Hajime were to reach Rome, the heir to the Karasuno Syndicate would be long gone. 

Hajime’s not used to being thrown for such a loop, and regardless of the amount of leniency he has been able to leech out of the agency, thus far, he damn well knows that time is ticking… and time is money. Money, which he has wasted well more than enough of already. Judging by the growing number of missed calls from Ushijima, it would seem that the Japanese Intelligence Agency was of the same opinion. His phone starts buzzing for a third time. 

(Huh. That’s new.)

_– Incoming call from Ushijima –_

“What?”

“ _Iwaizumi-san. How are you?_ ”

“Fine.” 

On the other end of the line, he’s able to hear Ushijima quietly hum in approval. “ _That is good to hear. What is your status update?_ ” Never one for small talk, that one. 

Through gritted teeth, Hajime gruffly responds: “The same as the last time you called.” He’s not yet ready to admit his failure.

“ _I see._ ” There's a brief silence, and for one blissful moment, Hajime thinks that Ushijima has cut the call. But he is sorely disappointed when next he hears: “ _I’m calling to inform you that you have until the 16th to complete your assignment. Should you fail, you’ll be put on desk duty, and I would guess that you’ll likely be demoted._ ”

 _You would guess._ “Understood.”

“ _Good._ ” Then, almost as an afterthought, “ _take care, Iwaizumi-san._ ”

The line goes cold, and so does his blood.

 _It should not be this fucking difficult!_ It never is, so why start now? …then again, his assignment had been to detain the heir to one of _the most powerful syndicates in Japan_. He feels as though he’ll tear his hair out, if it hasn’t already fallen out from all of the stress. _Demoted_ is what Ushijima had said, and it makes him want to gouge his eye balls out, too (yeah, maybe that agency-paid-for therapy session wasn’t such a bad idea, after all…). At least he can take solace in knowing that, where he is currently failing, Ushijima has already failed not once; not twice; but _thrice_. Everything has a silver-lining, he wryly supposes. 

Half-finished cappuccino still on the table, he makes sure to leave an extra five euros for any trouble that his scowling may have caused (Bianca always _insisted_ that his frowning face was a _deterrent to potential customers_ though she also always said so with a teasing smile on her pretty, sunshine face).

Bustling streets and thickets of people: that’s how Hajime would best describe the City of Canals. He effortlessly weaves his way through its crowded streets, meanwhile the sky has begun its steady decline from bright blue to pale purple. Rome’s nightlife will be rousing by now, and Kageyama will have once again eluded persecution, entirely unscathed. Any and all of what limited evidence J.I.A. had clumsily stitched together is useless now. It had been flimsy to begin with, but now it’s void in its entirety.

Front door of his agency-rented apartment shut and locked, he strips down to his boxer-briefs and throws open the bedside window (effectively airing out the hot, cramped apartment). Head first, he dives onto the springy mattress of his creaky bed, pressing his face into the sheets, and briefly entertains the idea of smothering himself to death with one of the flat pillows. 

(Yeah, he’s _definitely_ taking the agency up on that session.)

**Miyagi, 2018**

_Home,_ Hajime thought grimly. After the death of his parents, there was no reason left for him to visit the little town in which he grew up in… and so, he never did. Not much had changed, despite over a decade of time having come and gone. It was unnatural. 

Each step he took felt heavier than the last, and more than once he caught himself looking over his shoulder, feeling the intense urge to run to the nearest bus stop, get on whichever bus came first, and _disappear_. 

From: Tooru

17:56

where are you ?

To: Tooru

17:58

Almost there.

(It didn’t go unnoticed by Hajime that almost as soon as he pressed _send_ a read receipt appeared on his screen.)

**Venice, 2000**

Hajime wakes up with the sun in his face. His skin prickles from the soothing breeze that emanates from his bedside window, thick comforter long forgotten in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. He groans, twisting onto his side in pursuit of his _Citizen_ wrist-watch.

13:22

…is what it reads. Hajime’s jaw clenches. Excellent. Fan _fucking_ tastic. That’s over half the day, wasted. He rolls back over onto his back, staring up at the water-damaged ceiling as he wills away the tension from his shoulders (not that it actually _works_ ). Maybe it’s time he throw the towel in: to call Ushijima and return to Tokyo, tail between his legs… but then he remembers the bleakness of his office, and the bleakness of his overall life in Japan. He takes a moment of silence to mourn the vacation he had been promised, if he successfully brought Kageyama back to Japan in shackles; ball, chain and all.

Who’s he kidding? There’s no getting to Kageyama now. He might as well take the remaining three days as a makeshift mini-vacation, making up for the one he has lost, to destress and mentally prepare himself to spend the rest of his days doing nothing but paperwork (he shudders at the thought: he loves field-work, to the point where he has no qualms regarding his lack of having ever been given a vacation, and to be confined to a stuffy office in some skyscraper in Tokyo is as fearsome as it gets).

Hajime wrinkles his nose. There’s the sudden scent of burnt toast wafting through the air, much to his annoyance. He’s about to get up to close the window, when a fucking _fire alarm_ starts going off. 

Wait a damn minute. That’s _his fucking fire alarm_ that’s going off. 

A girlish shriek pierces the air.

“ _Aish!_ ”

Clad only in boxer-shorts is how Hajime runs out of the bedroom, gun in hand. 

“What the _fuck_?”

The sight that greets him is one of a thick, grey cloud polluting his kitchenette. It’s genesis? One of the old stove-top burners of the ancient stove, wherein he sees sits a _flaming fucking frying-pan_ (though the fire is diffused with celerity, as a man squeamishly swats at it with a dish-rag).

He knows that he should be more concerned over the fact that there is an _intruder in his kitchen_ ; but, for some un-godly reason, it somehow pales in comparison to the havoc that said intruder is currently wrecking on his poor, innocent kitchenette. What had he done in his previous life to deserve this shit? Hajime would never know.

The smoke has mostly cleared, granting him a better view of the pyromaniac (whom he’s irked to notice is _at least_ two inches taller than him): the arsonist is of a good, lean yet sturdy build; he has chestnut-coloured hair which is well kept and well styled, to frame his comely face that sports a childish pout (cheeks puffed, lips pursed; the works).

“I was just trying to make pancakes,” the pyromaniac woefully explains, as though it were _his_ apartment that they were standing in, rather than Hajime’s. He looks askance at the weapon in Hajime’s hand. Smiling pleasantly, he pulls out a pistol of his own to point directly back at him. “There’s no need for that,”

“I think that there is,” Hajime’s hold on the _Glock_ tightens. 

“ _Ah-ah-ah_ , you really don’t want to do that,” the man tuts, waving a patronising finger at Hajime’s face. “I have something you’ll be _very_ much interested in having… but if you kill me now, you’ll never get it. Well, not _all_ of it.” He holds up a small black object, the size of his thumb. “And trust me, you’ll _definitely_ be wanting all of it.”

Hajime would be lying if he were to say he was incurious. 

The man tosses the usb stick to him, causing him to fumble slightly in his attempt at catching it while still maintaining a firm grip on his gun. It is with great dubiety that he examines the portable hard drive. “What the fuck is on it?”

Twisting his face up in distaste, the pyromaniac chastises: “So crass, Iwa-chan!” If Hajime is caught off guard by the blatant bastardisation of his family name, he doesn’t show it. The pyromaniac nods at the computer that is, conveniently, sitting on the kitchen table and says: “Why don’t you have a look and find out for yourself?”

Hajime _knows_ that he shouldn’t take the bait, but he can’t help the need to indulge his intrigue. _Curiosity killed the cat, sure… but satisfaction brought it back_.

“ _Trust me_ ,” the man reiterates. He slowly lowers his pistol, places it carefully on the floor, then kicks it over to where it stops at Hajime’s feet; a gesture of good faith. “ …you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Hajime doesn’t trust him. Not as far as he can throw him. Still, he picks up the pistol, lowering his own firearm onto the table-top (close enough that, should the intruder try anything, Hajime would retain the upper-hand), and plugs the flash-drive into his _Dell_.

No longer in any immediate danger, the pyromaniac pulls out one of the table’s chairs and plops himself down, not giving it a second thought. 

Hajime has taken a seat of his own, and when the agency software has confirmed the flash-drive to be free from any form of malware, he anxiously waves the curser over the ominous folder that had appeared when he plugged the memory stick in... and _clicks_. Immediately, there’s an abundance of files rapidly popping up on the screen; the more files his eyes scan, the wider they become. _How and where the fuck had this man gotten these?_ Even more flummoxing: why allocate them to Hajime, of all people? Where there’s blood, so too is there usually a body nearby… and this _reeks_ of decomposition.

“Who _are_ you?”

“That’s the million dollar question.” He plucks a fig from the fruit bowl at the centre of the table and sinks his teeth into its tender flesh. Red juices flow down and out the corners of his mouth, making Hajime cringe at the sticky mess he is no doubt making of himself. “You know, you really disappointed me, Iwa-chan,” he says after finishing the fruit. “I was _really_ hoping that you’d be the one to do all the dirty work,” he pauses to lick his fingers clean (again, _ew_ ), “but it seems that _I_ was the one who had to do it for _you_.”

“Who are you?” Hajime repeats.

“We have a common enemy, you and I,” the nameless man pulls out an ugly satin handkerchief (the colour reminiscent of Hajime’s great aunt’s turquoise collection) from his breast pocket, proceeding to wipe away any leftover juices from his chin. “And you know what they say: _the enemy of my enemy is my friend_.” He folds his arms onto the table and leans in close, as though he were a school girl about to tell her best friend the name of the boy she has a crush on. “You wanna know what _I_ think?” His smile is a devilish one. “ _I_ think, that we would make the _best_ of friends.”

Hajime scoffs. “Really.”

“Um-hum,” the man springs to his feet and extends an arm out to Hajime. “Allow me to formally introduce myself,” his smile widens, until it’s more evocative to that of a Cheshire cat’s than the devil’s. “Oikawa Tooru. Pleasure to finally meet you, Iwaizumi Hajime.”

**New York City, 2015**

It would seem that as of late, Hajime’s eyes had developed somewhat of a penchant for playing tricks on him. 

(That, and he may or may not have acquired the ability to freeze time.)

Wherever he went; every street corner turned, every train boarded… it didn’t matter; he always found him (or was it the other way around?).

The first time he saw him was when he had been walking along Broadway. After Rio, Ushijima had made the executive decision to appoint him as emissary, in their collaboration with the Americans. New York would be a fresh start: it would be _good_ for him.

He had been wrong: whatever peace he might have found was ephemeral, at best.

(Halfway across the globe, yet still his ghosts remained ineluctable.) 

Upon descrying him, time came to a jarring halt. It was as though he had lost any and all reign over his body, impetuous in his pursuit and reminiscent of a madman, as he waved his arms wildly and elbowed his way through throngs of tourists; earning him looks of concern and contempt alike. 

_Flash!_

He was blind for half a second; half a second too long. Having been caught off guard by the flash of an amateur photographer’s too-expensive camera. By the time his vision stabilised, the ghost he’d been chasing had dissipated, leaving him behind. Leaving him alone. 

The second time that it happened had taken place with Time’s Square acting as a backdrop. As with the first, he had been frenetic in his pursuit… only to wind up at a dead-end, brick-walled alleyway.

(He hardly slept for a week after that. Ever since he woke up in Tokyo, his nights had been spent dreamlessly; but the brick walls had been unforgiving in their redolence, consigning him to Rio in his sleep.)

It was with the third apparition that he gave in: yielded to his fate. 

The third time it happened had been on one of those rare occasions, during which the subway carts weren’t packed so tight that he felt like a sardine. _Only one more stop until Harlem_. His foot tapped nervously on the dirty floor, and his gun had felt abnormally heavy from where it resided beneath his shirt and in its sling.

 _This is it_ , he thought. Over a decade of his life had inadvertently become dedicated to this one, singular, inevitable event. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small chapter in the book of his life, the chase itself reading well over half of it.

It was a thing too strange to fully comprehend: the notion that countless of years had been spent gathering intel; countless of lives had been lost, on either side, and all of it for the sake of a night in Harlem. It had been a stroke of pure luck, really, when an anonymous tip had been called in to him, personally: informing him that on the night of the 19th Kageyama Tobio and his wife, Kageyama Hitoka, were to be attending a show at the Apollo.

Station after station, to him they all looked the same; not worth paying much attention to. Which is why he had almost missed him (Christ, he wishes that he _had_ ). 

The train was at a stop at 116th Street Station, and just as the others, its platform had been essentially entirely empty. His eyes lazily scanned its premises, more out of habit than not (what else was he supposed to do?), while he continued the nervous tapping of his foot. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait all that long for the train to start stuttering from the force of its engine …and it was then that a man calmly stepped out onto the deserted platform. He wore a plain black suit, the type that you wear to a funeral, and carried with him a classic-style briefcase in his right hand. His hair was a deep chestnut, his stature tall. 

(There was only one other point in the totality of Hajime’s lifetime wherein he had been struck by a paroxysm of _helplessness_.)

His hands came up to slam against the window-glass as time froze over… but it was too late. The hefty vehicle revved, and with the speed of the train the station became an obsolescent blur; the man an evanescence. That wasn’t the last time that he saw him, but it had been the most dolorous.

(True to what the anonymous tip had said, Kageyama had, indeed, been at the Apollo that night. Only, it hadn’t been the right one: Kageyama Hitoka had gone alone.)

Sleepless nights are not insanity, Hajime knew that now. Insanity is when you saw the dead walking amongst the living. 

**Tokyo, 2015**

“You’re real fucking lucky, you know that, Iwaizumi?”

Hajime grunted; Kuroo shook his head in disbelief.

**Hong Kong, 2004**

Even as a child, he had never been one who cared all that much for surprises; a sentiment which had followed Hajime into adulthood. Plainly put, Hajime likes it when things are out in the open (the irony of it isn’t lost on him): he likes the security that predictability promises to provide. _Surprise_ is synonymous with _nescience_ , _nescience_ synonymous with _intractable_.

...Hong Kong is a wild card, if ever there was one.

The building he finds himself in front of is run down, more likely than not abandoned. Overhead scintillates a fuchsia neon sign, resembling the pulse of a beating heart. It reads _dà wáng_ , and Hajime can’t help but scoff sardonically. _Of course that’s what it says_. 

Pressing experimentally on the door, he’s pleased when it pushes open with little-to-no resistance; revealing a dingy-looking, shrouded staircase and nothing more. There’s no light switch that he can find, so the flame from his _Zippo_ quickly becomes his only guide as he works his way up the serpentine stairway.

**Calgary, 2005**

While not wholly horrible, Calgary is still a far cry from interesting… in truth, it’s really rather _bland_. But Hajime doesn’t mind bland, not at all. He had been meant to meet with Tanaka Saeko, but her family had pulled out from the deal they’d made with J.I.A. at the last minute, leaving him with nothing to do while the agency sorted out his traveling affairs. 

(He’s begining to notice a bit of a pattern…)

It seems as though someone Up There isn’t particularly fond of Hajime, because as he’s walking around Downtown Calgary, he quite literally bumps into _Oikawa Tooru_. The first thing to compute in his mind is the gelidness of the ice-cream that’s now smeared all over his chest. The second thing to compute is Oikawa’s _Ah! Shit, I’m so sorry…_

“ …wait. Iwa-chan? Is that you?”

Why? Just. _Why?_

“Oikawa.”

“Ah, I’m sorry about your shirt, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, sounding sincere in his remorse. “I mean, it was ugly to begin with, but now it’s even uglier!” 

(Scratch that whole _sincerity_ thing.)

“It’s fine.” It’s not fine.

“Hm, I guess…” says Oikawa, trailing off with a contemplative look in his eye, biting down on his oleander-pink lower lip. “Come.” The way he says it is analogous to when they’d gone to get _crêpes_ in Leipzig. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he declares, cheerily. 

His gut reaction is to say _no_ , but after Hong Kong, he figures that a shirt is entirely harmless. 

They wind up in a crowded _Simon’s_ , located within a galleria that’s attached to the platform of a c-train. Oikawa is relentless in his suggestions, but Hajime puts his foot down; remaining strict in his convictions. A plain shirt will do just fine, thank you very much.

(He does end up getting his plain shirt. He also gets a t-shirt covered in a hideous alien print, a matching one folded alongside it in the silver, plastic shopping-bag that’s oscillating from his hand.)

 **Tokyo, 2015**

Waking up in Japan leaves Hajime a hollow shell of his former self. His body is as numb as his mind, lethargic in it’s movements, and his memory remains foggy; though one thing he knows with the utmost of certainty is that Tooru is dead. 

**Leipzig, 2001**

Leipzig, Germany is drab, dreary, and a welcome escape from the confines of his fusty office back in Tokyo. 

He’s ten days into his stay, Taketora Yamamoto nine days in the ground. His agency-booked train isn’t set to leave until the following morning, leaving him with an extra day to do as he likes. Landing on German soil had been a breath of fresh air, and he would be damned if he didn’t enjoy it while it lasted. 

Hajime wouldn’t say that he’s partial to the rain, but he also wouldn’t saw that he’s averse to it; he enjoys the crisp scent of it, and more often than not, finds the gentle rhythm of falling raindrops to be soothing to the soul. Apparently, he’s not the only holder of this sentiment. 

There’s a tall, willowy figure standing silently in the middle of a vacant field. _How long has he been standing there?_ He wonders. More confounding: what is it about him that is so fucking familiar (Hajime’s not embarrassed in admitting that he doesn’t actually have that many friends, that is to say, if co-workers even count as _friends_ to begin with…)? It takes him another couple of seconds, but when it clicks, it _clicks_.

“Oikawa.”

Oikawa is sluggish in his movements as he pivots to face Hajime.

“What’re…” Oikawa pauses to clear his throat and turn up his chin, looking down on Hajime snobbishly (though the snot running down his nose mitigates the effect). “ … _you_ doing here?”

Oikawa looks _bad_. His hair is a mess and his voice hoarse. While he’s stopped with the sniffling (he wipes the snot away, from where it had been running down his nose and upper lip, with that _dreadful_ cyan handkerchief of his), Hajime can see it in his eyes: red-rimmed, puffy, bloodshot. 

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

“Fine.” Oikawa huffs indignantly (not that he had much, if any, dignity to begin with). “Don’t tell me.” Then, “Have you eaten yet, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime blanks at the inquiry, thrown off by the sharpness of the shift in the other man’s mien.

“I’ll take that as a _no_.” Hajime frowns at the assumption (even if it’s right). What scheme is he cooking up? “Come on.” He glides past Hajime with graceful ease, flicking his wrist in a _come hither_ gesture. “There’s this _amazing_ place, a couple of blocks from here. They make the _best_ _crêpes_ you’ll ever have in your miserable life!”

(Trailing after him, Hajime makes a point out of ignoring the insult.)

 _Crêpes_? It’s well past five, but Oikawa seems entirely unfazed by this as he leads the way back into the heart of the city. Hajime’s not exactly sure why he bothers to follow him, but next thing he knows he’s being seated at a table across from Oikawa fucking Tooru. He doubts that stranger things have happened. 

Oikawa doesn’t so much as wait for their waters before he’s ordering on behalf of the both of them, not once looking at the menu or Hajime for consultation. _Pompous asshole_.

When the waiter leaves with their orders, Oikawa looks him fiercely in the eye, and says: “Is it true?” Oikawa wears the most serious expression that Hajime’s ever seen on his pretty(,) shitty face.

Hajime scowls over the menu he had picked up (primarily out of spite), taking a moment to thank the waiter as two glasses of water are placed between them. “Is _what_ true?”

Oikawa’s eyes dart from side to side with moderate scrutiny. When he deems the coast as being clear, he leans in, too close for comfort, and stage-whispers: “Is it true that Shiratorizawa is housing aliens in Tokyo?”

Hajime chokes on his sparkling water. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“It’s okay,” Oikawa reassures him. “I can keep a secret.” The bastard fucking _winks_.

Hajime can’t tell whether he’s _actually_ being serious or not. He coughs out a pathetic, “uh, no?” Still in the process of regaining his breath. 

Oikawa’s face drops. “You’re only saying that because it’s a _secret_.”

What on Earth?

“Okay, first of all, it’s not a secret. Second of all, it’s not a secret because there aren’t any fucking _aliens_ in Tokyo.”

The browns of Oikawa’s eyes light up. “But there _are_ aliens.”

“What the hell? I didn’t say that.”

“Not in so many words, no.” Oikawa concedes. “But you didn’t say that there _aren’t_ , either.”

“But I did…?”

“Hush, you!”

Hajime shakes his head in utter disbelief. This was a mistake. The sensible think to do would be to put on his coat, go back to the inn, and pray to whatever god is out there that this is all a stress-induced fever-dream (re: nightmare) that he would wake up from as soon as Dream Hajime fell asleep. Those were the things that he _should_ do, but that doesn’t mean that he _will_. He blames the _crêpes_.

Oikawa hadn’t been kidding: there in front of him is placed a large plate, presenting him with a light, fluffy _crêpe_ that’s topped with strawberries, whipped cream, and powdered sugar. There’s chocolate drizzle, too, and the whipped cream has been swirled into dainty rosettes. Oikawa’s is less grand; caramel drizzle and whipped cream being the only visible toppings, though he thinks there’s some type of custard smeared within the folds, along with more caramel. 

By the time that Hajime has taken his third bite of _crêpe_ , Oikawa is already half-way through his own, a smile of pure pleasure plastered across his stupid face. He almost looks nice, Hajime thinks, and feels his stomach flutter. Damn, the _crêpe_ really _is_ good.

“I _told_ you they’re good!” Oikawa vaunts, as though he has achieved some sort of venerable victory. 

Hajime hums his agreement, opting instead to finish his off than to further engage with the asshole sitting across from him.

…the silence doesn’t last. 

“I know you’re just _dying_ to know what my wonderful self could _possibly_ be doing in this miserable excuse-for-a-town in the middle-of-nowhere, Germany,”

“Leipzig isn’t in the middle of nowhere, and it’s the most populous city in Saxony.”

Oikawa waves him off. “Technicalities. Anyways, as I was saying, before Iwa-chan _so_ _rudely interrupted me_ ,” Hajime snorts, earning him a pointed look. “Alas! I’m forbidden to tell you. Sorry, Iwa-can~”

Truth be told, Hajime _is_ , in fact, interested in knowing what business Oikawa has in _Leipzig_ , of all places. But he’s not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. 

“Okay.”

Oikawa gapes. “So cold, Iwa-chan!” He gripes, then stuffs the last of his _crêpe_ into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously as though he were a child. 

“Stop that,” says Hajime in disgust. This only seems to egg Oikawa on, though, Hajime realises belatedly and with a grimace. 

“All done!” Oikawa proclaims, and Hajime simply nods along. “Will you tell me about the aliens _now_?”

Is this man serious? He can’t be serious…

“Oh, I’m _very_ serious, Iwa-chan. I’m _always_ serious about the aliens.”

( _I can’t believe I actually said that out loud…_ ) 

Hajime cringes. “Would you quit it? You’re bothering other people.”

Oikawa purses his lips, but after glancing around at the other patrons, complies with Hajime’s request.

When next the waiter arrives, it’s with their cheques in one hand and a machine in the other (split, Hajime had told him earlier). Hajime swipes the agency card for his, then sits back to watch as Oikawa rummages around in his pockets, floundering. When he looks back up, his eyes are round as saucers. 

“I forgot my wallet.” He breathes. There’s a panicky expression crawling up his face as he looks back and forth between the waiter and Hajime. “Iwa-chan, you wait here, I’ll be ri—”

“Hand it here,” Hajime says gruffly to the waiter, who, after a moment’s hesitation, passes the machine back over to Hajime. This time, it’s his personal card that he swipes.

They exit the establishment to a sky gone dark; stars twinkling across its expanse, a full moon as the centrepiece, in place of where there had once been a grey layer of solid cloud. 

“That was very nice of you, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime almost believes that his word are artless.

“Yeah well, only an idiot forgets his wallet before going out to dinner.”

Oikawa’s jaw drops and he slaps Hajime’s upper arm. “So mean, Iwa-chan!”

Chuckling, he responds with: “I thought you said I was _nice_.”

“Well, I take it back!” Oikawa turns his nose up at him. He’s about to tack on another retort, when his phone starts ringing in his pocket. 

_– 街に愛の歌 流れはじめたら ~ –_

Oikawa jumps slightly, startled by his own ringtone, and Hajime can’t help but roll his eyes as _Arashi_ is loudly played from a six-foot-tall man’s jacket pocket. When he pulls it out, Oikawa holds the offending device in front of him, at arm’s-length, and looks down at it with a mixture of disdain and resignation. 

_Mad Dog-chan_ is what blinks on the screen. 

Oikawa sighs melodramatically. “So sorry, Iwa-chan, but duty calls!” Then he’s crudely groping at Hajime’s hand, fumbling with something in his own, before pulling back and throwing him a last-minute wave. Hajime can only stare as Oikawa lifts the phone to his ear, answering it with a clipped _what?_. Comically, he hunches his shoulders and starts to walk away. Unsure of if he should follow or not, Hajime remains rooted in the spot Oikawa had left him in. When he can no longer see or hear the other man, he takes out his own phone. 

23:23

Is it really that late? When he glances back up, Oikawa is still nowhere to be seen. There’s a twisting feeling in his stomach, but Hajime dismisses it as a sign of the toll that chronic sleep deprivation has taken on his body. He looks back down at his phone. 

23:25

It’s only been two minutes, but he knows that the likelihood of Oikawa coming back is slim to none ( _he waved goodbye_ , Hajime reminds himself). So, he tucks his _BlackBerry_ away into his pocket and makes for the bed that’s waiting for him back at the inn, somehow synchronously exhausted and exuberant (all the while keeping his fist clenched tightly).

Back in the safe privacy of his suite, Hajime unfurls the fist which Oikawa had clumsily grabbed at: all that is there is a tiny, crinkled note (what else had he expected?). He unfolds it with care, fingers meticulous in their work. 

wecnvuxvnz3

vixxviiimmiv

0̸0̸0̸0̸

**Tokyo, 2015**

“What’s going to happen to him?”

Evidently, the matter at hand was one which Ushijima cared very little for: he didn’t even bother to pay Hajime the courtesy of looking him in the eye while they spoke. “What’s going to happen to whom?”

“Don’t you fucking bullshit me.” Hajime knew he had crossed a line when Ushijima’s shoulders tensed. 

“If it’s Oikawa you’re asking me about, I don’t know.”

“ _Bullshit!_ ”

Ushijima sighed. “I would appreciate it if you were to refrain from raising your voice.” He placed down the quire of paperwork he had been winnowing through. “I do not lie, Iwaizumi-san.”

As frustrating as it was, Hajime knew his words were true. Ushijima was blunt by nature; never one to sugar-coat things (though, Hajime wasn’t sure he even knew how). It was a trait which Hajime had always admired in his superior and, as time went on, one of many for why he respected him as much as he did.

“But you would tell me if you knew,” Hajime could hardly recognise his own voice, it was so visceral.

Ushijima’s quietude was answer enough. 

As Hajime began to leave, he wanted so much to slam the door shut behind him; to slam it so hard that when the glass of it shattered, it’s shards would become a materiel manifestation of what had become of _him_. 

“Iwaizumi-san. I’m sorry.”

The door was left ajar. 

**Acapulco, 2007**

Hajime hasn’t felt lonely in a long time. Back at HQ, he always had Kuroo or Bokuto flitting around him; on occasion, he would eat lunch with Akaashi, or sometimes with Ushijima himself. But in a house with as many vacant rooms as a grotty two-star motel, he can’t help but feel so depressingly _alone_.

The villa that the agency had rented out for him is located along the beach, neighbouring a surfeit of others almost identical to his own. Plainly put, Hajime is undercover as a fucking trust-fund baby. Why, you might ask? To befriend one or both of the Miya Twins. 

A large chunk of him wishes that the assignment had been given to Kuroo or Bokuto because, to be quite frank, it is far better suited to one of them than it is to him. He had said so, too, when the file had been unceremoniously dropped onto his desk. But Ushijima had _insisted_ that Bokuto was too brash, then reminded him that Kuroo was still away in Taiwan, working a differing assignment. _Okay,_ Hajime had said, _what about Sugawara?_ Surely _he_ would find more success with this assignment, and faster still. Ushijima had merely furrowed his brows and plainly asked if this was Hajime’s way of resigning, and that had been the end of that (though it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Hajime the way in which his superior’s eyes had hardened at the mention of Sugawara, leaving him with a feeling of perturbation).

As sons of the Chief Justice of Japan, the Miya Twins already possessed their fair share of notoriety. However, their reputation of fast cars and over-the-top parties weren’t what J.I.A. was interested in: if the information that the agency’s informants had procured for them held any merit, then that meant that the twins could be the final link in a long chain connecting their father to the perniciously strengthening Karasuno Syndicate. 

Hajime’s job, in theory, is really rather simple: all he needs is for one of the twins to slip up while in his presence. 

Easier said than done.

**Somewhere, sometime…**

Iwaizumi Hajime was not a man of regrets. He was of the opinion that _regret_ was a useless emotion and of little value; all it could do was inflict pain with no resolution, because the truth of the matter is this: you can’t change the past. No matter how deeply to yearn to, it will never happen. The only thing _regret_ is useful for is to mask guilt with parodied retribution. But every man is subject to having a minimum of one regret in his lifetime. 

Iwaizumi Hajime’s was called Rio.

**Cairo, 2007**

Hajime never imagined that he would get to see the Pyramids of Giza in person, yet here he is. Even more unimaginable? The idea that he would get to see them with Oikawa Tooru by his side.

It’s not the first time during their trip that he’s looked at the other in awe, unsure of as to whether or not he’s merely a mirage; a figment of Hajime’s heat-stricken imagination. Once, he had gone so far as to poke him in the ribs, just to make sure (that had earned him a startled _hey!_ and a fist to the bicep).

“They’re so _big_ , Hajime!” Tooru exclaims, eyes full of childish wonder. “How long do you think it took the aliens to buil—”

“Aliens didn’t build the Pyramids, Trashikawa.” Hajime resists the urge to smack him. 

“You don’t _know_ that,” he whines. “Unless…” he smirks, waggling his eyebrows at Hajime (in a way that he _thinks_ is supposed to be suggestive, but falls flat), who proceeds to curse whichever god is looking down on them for allowing this _nuisance_ to have been brought into creation. Tooru leans in to whisper in his ear, “I bet the Tokyo Aliens already told you, didn’t they?”

This time, Hajime doesn’t resist the urge, and smacks him upside the head without an ounce of guilt. “Idiot. I already told you there aren’t any goddamn aliens in Tokyo. Would you knock it off, already?”

In true Tooru fashion, this full grown man fucking pouts. He looks at him like a child would at his mother, after being denied his dessert and told to finish his broccoli first. “One day,” he promises, wistfully. “One day, you’ll tell me.” He says it with such strong surety, that Hajime can’t help but to believe him. He only grunts in response, neither affirming nor denying him. 

The pair follow along after their tour guide, causing no further disruptions. 

(This time there are no assignments, no ulterior motives, only Hajime and Tooru. It’s thrilling what they’re doing: sneaking around while their respective organisations believe them to be in Acapulco. They feel _normal_ , and Hajime finds that to be too much, because he hasn’t felt _this_ , whatever _this_ is, in a longtime; maybe in forever.)

**Paris, 2010**

The right side of the bed is cold when Hajime wakes up. 

**Acapulco, 2007**

Three months into his investigation, and Hajime has garnered absolutely _nothing_ to show for it. The Miya Twins have proven to be much more difficult to get a hold of than the agency had initially presumed, throwing a fat wrench into Hajime’s plans. It had forced him to resort to various other means, in his attempt to _at the very least_ get in the same room as either one of the twins. Has he managed to make a few valuable connections? Yes. 

Just none that were actually worth a damn. 

Hajime’s lost almost all hope by the time that he’s glumly walking in through a pair of glorious double-doors of one of the many Shimizu residences. Therefore, he feels it to be completely within his rights when he loses his breath from the force of the double whammy he’s been hit by, upon spotting Miya Atsumu seated on a brown leather couch… with none other than Oikawa fucking Tooru (who is in the process of talking his ear off, before he catches sight of Hajime).

“Iwa-chan!” 

Hajime can _feel_ years being taken off of his life from the shrillness of that shriek, alone (seriously, what is _wrong_ with that guy?).

From beside Oikawa, Miya quirks an interested brow. That’s when Hajime realises that _this is his in_. Unbeknownst, Oikawa had just handed him the very thing that he had spent a _quarter of a year_ in pursuit of on a silver platter, with roses to boot. Confidently, he begins to stride over to where the two men are sat. But the closer he gets, the more that confidence starts to crack… which doesn’t make any sense. Hajime has completed countless other assignments of a similar caliber, and never once has he faltered in any of his facades.

Oikawa bounces off of the couch, skipping to meet him half way. 

“What’re you _doing_ here?” Hajime hisses. 

“Shouldn’t _I_ be the one asking _you_ that?” Even as he throws his own words back at him, there’s no bite to his bark. 

Hajime looks over Oikawa’s shoulder to where Miya Atsumu remains seated on the dark leather couch. His eyes are devilish, though not in the same way that Oikawa’s could sometimes be. Where his were mischievously mirthful, Miya’s were mischievously malevolent. A sense of malaise descended onto Hajime.

(If Oikawa’s grin tightens, Hajime doesn’t notice.)

“I can introduce you, if you’d like?”

Hajime reverts his gaze back to the Brazilian spy, searching for any signs of sabotage (even if there were, it’s not as though he would have actually found them).

“Thanks,” he says thickly. 

Back on the couch, Oikawa has no issue in seamlessly reintegrating himself into their earlier conversation, leaving Hajime the odd man out. He had expected Oikawa to integrate him into it, too. But instead he’s left on the sidelines, while the unlikely pair go on and on about god knows what. 

Fifteen minutes in, and the flush of humiliation begins to rush up into his cheeks. He should’ve never trusted Oikawa; nothing good’s ever come from any of the appearances he’s made in Hajime’s life. Why should this time be any different? …that is, until he actually starts to _listen_ to what they’re saying.

The more he listens, the more he hears; the more he hears, the more he learns. By the end of the night, he has everything he had come for… and then some. 

_You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours._

**Hong Kong, 2004**

Hajime has no business being in Hong Kong. None, whatsoever. Nor does he have any viably reasonable reason to, either (this little _rendezvous_ of theirs being the furthest thing from _reasonable_ ). But it would seem that his fate had been sealed in 2000.

His most recent assignment had taken him to Bangkok and, given it’s geographical location, it hadn’t been at all difficult for him to purchase a (relatively cheap) plane ticket from the capital of Thailand to Hong Kong. With the dates matching up as well as they did (almost _too_ well…), his life had been made infinitely easier than if he would’ve had to find his way there, by means entirely of his own. Money wasn’t the issue… getting _time off_ was. Benign as it may be to the Average Joe, in his field of work a request of that nature is bound to raise suspicion: for his field of work, inherently, is one of a suspicious nature. 

For spies of the Japanese Intelligence Agency to take any form of leave, save for medical, is unheard of. Japanese spies don’t _get_ to have lives: all they are are pawns on an omnipresent, political chessboard.

Bangkok had been somewhat of an atypical assignment, considering that he had been sent with a _partner_. To be fair, Hajime isn’t unfamiliar with working assignments alongside other agents. But never before had he been paired up with a member of J.I.A.’s Special Assassinations Unit, colloquially known as _Black Swan_. 

Tendou Satori is not a man to be trifled with. He’s cutthroat and ruthless, unlike anyone Hajime has ever encountered before. He’s also Ushijima’s most trusted confident; his right hand man.

The trouble with Tendou is that he has this… this _habit_ of sticking to his partner’s side, like gum to a shoe. It didn’t matter who you were: if you were partnered up with Tendou Satori, you might as well do yourself the favour of accepting the temporary loss of your privacy and personal space.

Tendou’s antics were, if you asked Hajime, completely out of control and out of line. But with Ushijima as a shield, the man was virtually untouchable. Which is why Hajime had been so enthused by the revelation that Tendou’s flight back would be leaving the night before his own. He knew that, had things been different, there was no way he would have been able to get to where he is now. 

From where he stands by the ledge of the building, Oikawa is less man and more Avenging Angel. Hong Kong’s neon signs cast a golden-orange glow on his person, the brighter of the lights bouncing off of his hair to crown him with a copper halo. 

Hajime is quiet in his approach, tentatively stepping to stand beside the other man so that they’re watching the romantic cityscape together, shoulder-to-shoulder. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say; hell, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to _think_.

(What are we _doing_? What am _I_ doing?)

“Long time no see, Iwa-chan~” Oikawa greets in that hallmark playful attitude of his… though there’s an ostensible stiffness to his panache, that Hajime hates himself for picking up on so easily. “I missed you so much!” 

Hajime grunts. “Well, I didn’t miss you.”

Oikawa gasps, looking aghast. “So mean, Iwa-chan!” Expression turning sly, he adds: “if you didn’t miss me, then why are you here, hm?~”

Hajime’s gaze becomes fixed on a pair of _hanzi_ from separate signs that are located on two of the complexes across from them. Both are overtly attached to other characters, to form some sort of phrase over their respective buildings, but they’ve all gone opaque; none of the characters still hold the capacity to illuminate the city, save for the two. 

(不幸 is what they unintentionally form.)

By the time that he thinks up an excuse, the question has gone too long unanswered (because he _can’t_ ; he has no answer).

They bask beneath the incandescent city, taking comfort in one another’s silent company. Seconds turn into minutes; minutes turn into seconds.

(They don't actually, but Hajime feels as though they do. Maybe time works differently up here. He thinks that he would like it if it did.) 

He’s unsure of how long it lasts, only that it wasn’t long enough.

Oikawa sighs. “What happens now, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime tries to keep his voice level. “Why are you asking me? This was _your_ idea, not mine.”

“Ah, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa smiles sheepishly at him. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.” Hajime bunches his brows. _Just what exactly is he on about, now?_ “Come to think of it, I can’t say that I blame you.”

Vaguely, he begins to recognise the sound of footsteps, bursting the crystalline bubble he and Oikawa had unwittingly crafted for themselves; a world of their very own. Only him and Oikawa. _It’s supposed to only be him and Oikawa._

Hajime’s side-eyeing him now. “What the hell are you on about, Shittikawa?”

“You don’t have to pretend, Iwa-chan. The gig is up.” The way in which he says it, Hajime knows, is meant to maintain that playful gimmick of his; it comes off as the polar opposite. 

His self-control wears down, until he can’t stand it any longer. Hajime turns his head to face him, head on: he simply can’t believe what he’s hearing… and then he can’t believe what he’s _seeing_.

There’s the barrel of a gun pressed firmly against Oikawa’s occiput. Oddly, Hajime’s first thought is: _that’s gonna leave a nasty bruise_. His second thought isn’t a thought, it’s an instinct: in a smooth, well rehearsed act he draws out his gun... 

_Bang!_

Hajime’s not sure who pulled the trigger first (yes he is). With his body running on adrenaline, his eyes had squeezed shut from the power of the aftershocks of the gun’s recoil.

At first, he isn’t capable of fully grasping the gravity of what he’s done. It had all been so _quick_. There’s a tidal wave of emotion sweeping over his entire being; his head feels all floaty and fuzzy, his hands numb and tingly. The gun slips from fingers gone lax, and the clattering sound of its landing barely registers in his ears, as he exhales the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in for as long as he had. 

It’s pouring now ( _when had it started raining?_ ). Oikawa’s hair is a soaked mess, sticking to his forehead; yet, his bronze halo remains.

“Help me get rid of the body.” Jade eyes meet onyx. “ _Now_ , Oikawa.”

“Right.”

**Tokyo, 2015**

The first thing that Hajime was aware of were the bright fluorescent lights, and he thought for a moment that he must be in Heaven (except, that wasn’t right, not at all). But when his pupils settled, the shadows of the room faded back into his vision: proving to him that he was, indeed, very much still alive. 

_Pity._

Vague and distant, he heard a familiar voice yell out: “ _He’s awake!_ ”

Hajime’s eyes nictate, staying tightly closed for seconds in between, stubbornly resisting to remain open. When they _did_ , he saw Kuroo’s face, lined with languor; Ushijima standing a couple of paces behind from where the former was sitting in a chair beside his hospital bed.

Despite their blatant exhaustion, Kuroo wore an expression of gratitude; Ushijima one of relief. 

“You’re real fucking lucky, you know that, Iwaizumi?”

Hajime grunted; Kuroo shook his head in disbelief.

Nevertheless, it was painstakingly clear how much weight Kuroo’s words carried. In any other instance, Hajime would be grateful, too. But how could he be considered lucky, when he had just lost the person who mattered most in Hajime’s world? How could he be expected to go on, when he was no longer whole? It was cruel.

Humans aren’t meant to exist fragmented. Whilst, over time, they may become chipped and worn away at, pieces of their souls are seldom ever truly missing. See, there is a distinct difference between feeling as though a piece of you is missing, and missing a piece of yourself that you can no longer feel. The anterior is an illusion of loss, a pining for something that was never yours to begin with; the latter is a verity of grief, a lachrymal longing for that which once was yours that will never return. 

When he was discharged, left in a state of cardiac ventricle, he was condemned to spend the rest of his life wondering the Earth, lost. 

(Like in Leipzig and Hong Kong, it was raining; as though Mary were mourning the loss of yet another soul.)

**Acapulco, 2007**

When two neutron stars orbit one another, they form what is known as a binary neutron star. As a result of the effect that gravitational waves has on them, the two stars will spend the entirety of their lives together; in time spiralling inwards from the force of gravitational radiation. Eventually, the binary will begin to grow precipitately unstable until both stars launch themselves at one another, and it is from this collision that one of three outcomes will be produced:

The first is that when they merge, they will join together to form a more massive neutron star; the second is, should the mass of their combined remnants be greater than the Tolman-Oppenheimer-Volkoff limit, their merger will result in the formation of a black hole; the third and final outcome is the rarest. In this scenario, their unification will create what is known as a kilonova, emitting a short gamma-ray burst with a duration of under two seconds. In the end, each of these outcomes will always have one thing in common: a lifetime they will have spent together, yet it is only as they draw their dying breaths that finally they meet. 

It’s with a splitting headache that Hajime wakes up, made only worse by the piercing sunshine that’s coming in through the large panes of glass that he tenaciously tentatively calls a _wall_. He stumbles as he tries to have the curtains release, but then the nausea hits and he forgets all about them as he runs to the nearest toilet. The bathroom is, thankfully, en-suite. 

(He doesn’t end up throwing up, in case you were wondering.)

When the dry heaving has passed, Hajime pulls himself up and makes his way to the spacious kitchen of the villa, where he is greeted by an all too-familiar sight. 

He feels his soul leave his body. 

“Iwa-chan! You’re awake!” Oikawa gestures towards the counter-slash-bar, where Hajime sees are a stack of very fluffy looking pancakes, two plates set adjacent to one another. “I couldn’t find any syrup, so I just added extra sugar,” he tells him, as the places a pancake onto his plate for him. 

Hajime has so many questions ( _so many questions_ ), but his empty stomach is aching for something to fill it, and Oikawa’s pancakes do, admittedly, look rather appetising from where he’s standing. 

When he’s on his third pancake, Oikawa on his fourth, the latter asks: “Iwa-chan, why didn’t you wait for me?”

Mouth full of pancake, Hajime raises his eyebrows. “Huh?”

Oikawa pouts. “You don’t even _remember_!” He whales. 

“Am I _supposed_ to remember?” Shit. What the hell happened last night? He _knows_ that the drinking hadn’t started until _after_ Miya left… and then there had been the weed. He shudders at the memory. It was the weed that had done him in, he just knew it. It takes a lot of concentration for Hajime to keep the panic from showing on his face. 

“Yes!” Oikawa squawks, eyes owlish. “Leipzig, Iwa-chan! Leipzig!” He takes a bite of pancake and chews childishly, reminiscent of the dinner they had shared in a miserable-excuse-for-a-town in the middle-of-nowhere, Germany. 

“Wait. Do you mean when you left to go take that call? I thought you weren’t coming back! You even _waved goodbye_.” He stabs his fork into a plush pancake, taking his knife to slice out a reasonably-sized portion because he’s civilised, unlike _some people_. “Besides, didn’t you forget, too? You didn’t bring it up when we were in Calgary.” (He doesn’t mention Hong Kong, though it goes without saying). Hajime’s partly taken aback by how casually he had just spoken. When the fuck had they gotten so pally? 

Again, Oikawa pouts. “But I _did_ come back. And I waited, too!” (Under his breath, he lowly grumbles: “So what if I forgot in Calgary…”)

His words shouldn’t affect Hajime in the way that they do, but he’s long since stopped trying to rationalise the strange feelings that, over the years, Oikawa Tooru has come to inspire in him (and, if Hajime were to be honest with himself, always has). “Idiot. Why would you wait?” 

“I thought you went to the bathroom, or something!” Oikawa looks embarrassed, a red flush creeping up his neck. “It doesn’t matter,” he waves off. 

( _It does matter_ , Hajime thinks.)

When they’ve finished their breakfast, Oikawa _insists_ on being the one to do the dishes (despite having already prepared for them their breakfast), so Hajime stays sat on the stool and out of the way, keeping the other silent company while drinking his coffee (which had been brewed by Oikawa, too). 

“When are you going back?”

“D’know. In a couple of days, I guess. I haven’t told the agency, yet.”

Oikawa hums. 

He’s finished his coffee, so Hajime makes his way over to the sink to wash the mug out for himself, not yet realising the closeness in proximity between the two of them. Initially, it’s just _weird_ , standing next to Oikawa like that: almost chest to back, like his father used to do with his mother. But then, Oikawa’s turning around to grab at something, and all of a sudden they’re eye to eye; nose to nose. 

This close up, Hajime learns that Oikawa has a teeny-tiny splatter of barely-there freckles constellating across the bridge of his nose; so faded, that just a couple of centimetres back, and he wouldn’t’ve seen them at all. This close up, Hajime discovers that Oikawa’s breath is warm and smells like cinnamon; steady and even, while it’s hitched in the back of his throat (or is it _his_ breath that’s hitched?). He should pull back, Hajime knows (he draws in closer). The sensible thing to do would be to leave the mug in the sink, walk away, and lock himself in the master bedroom until Oikawa’s left. Better yet, he should kick Oikawa out, altogether. Those were the things that he _should_ do, but that doesn’t mean that he _will_

(It’s Oikawa’s fault. Except, that it’s not. The fault is just as much his own as it is Oikawa’s. Could it even really be called _fault,_ though? Could what they were doing really, truly, immutably be something worthy of being dubbed _fault_?)

They lean in close. Then closer. And closer… and _closerclosercloser_ ; until, like dying stars, they collapse into one another.

Hajime learns that Oikawa’s lips are slightly chapped, but it’s not at all unpleasant. When he pushes him onto the bed (when had they gotten there?), Hajime discovers that the flush on Oikawa’s neck runs down to his chest and up to the tips of his ears. Hajime learns that he likes it when he sinks his teeth into the place where shoulder meets neck; not so forceful so as to cause Oikawa any actual pain, but enough so that when he pulls back, there’s a purplish mark where Oikawa’s neck had once been pristinely unblemished; evidence of his being there. 

“ _Fuck_ ,”

Hajime brings a leg to slot between Oikawa’s thighs, who almost instantaneously begins to vehemently rut into the contact. 

“ _Iwa,_ ”

Their movements grow sloppier, the nearer they get to their release. 

“ _God, Oikawa!_ ”

Oikawa now has his arms wrapped tightly around Hajime’s neck, pulling him in _so close_ , as if to fuse them into one.

(As if they were afraid that one would disappear if the other were to let go.)

One of them shifts their hips ever so slightly, and now Hajime’s erection is pressing directly up against Oikawa’s. He’s so close, so fucking close. And if Oikawa’s heavy panting is anything to go off of, he is, too.

Then, it’s over. 

Hajime falls overtop Oikawa, eyes still closed from when they had squeezed shut from the force of his orgasm (they hadn’t even taken their _clothes off_ , Hajime thinks, reeling). 

“Off,” grumbled Oikawa, pushing half heartedly at Hajime’s chest. He takes the hint, and rolls over so that he’s laying beside Oikawa, both their breaths laboured. 

“That was…”

“ …yeah.”

Oikawa shamelessly shimmies out of his soiled clothes, then settles on his side facing Hajime, head pillowed on folded arms. 

“Next time, let’s meet in Paris.” His eyes flutter to a close. “You know, Iwa-chan,” he pauses to yawn. “ …I’ve never been to Paris, before.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Oikawa shuffles closer, so that he can lay his head on Hajime’s chest, who adjusts himself accordingly; wrapping his arm around Oikawa’s shoulder, hand carding through damp, thick, chestnut curls. 

“Paris it is.”

**Rio, 2015**

Everything about Rio was one giant, massive, colossal _mistake_. 

Unplanned and uncoordinated, the assignment had originally been given to Bokuto and Akaashi… but when the latter of the two had been shot the month prior, Bokuto had refused to go; even after Akaashi’s injuries had all been confirmed non-fatal, and that he would make a full recovery. 

(Bokuto is so fucking _selfish_.)

“Duck!”

He barely hears Kuroo’s warning in time, the firing of bullets reverberating in his ears like a morbid orchestra performing the Symphony of Life and Death. Scrambling to their feet, they race down the stairs of the abandoned building they had taken shelter in, when the first of the bullets started singing. 

“Shit.” Hajime twists and turns, trying to locate where the Brazilians are stationed. Next to him, Kuroo is telling him something, but in his frazzled state, Hajime can’t hear him; too swept up in his search for a Japanese, Brazilian spy. He can feel his arm be tugged at, and he’s forced to follow after Kuroo, who is saying something else that Hajime also doesn’t hear. 

Civilians, in their panic, run around like chickens who’ve just had their heads chopped off. Their screams are thick with fear, and they shout out names more than they do for help. 

( _It wasn’t supposed to be like this._ )

In the midst of all of the chaos, he and Kuroo almost immediately become separated. The civilians have formed dense mobs now, making it impossible for them to remain efficient whilst still remaining together. Hajime’s never experienced anything like it. 

Rounding another corner, he awkwardly swipes at his phone in an attempt to share his location with Kuroo, all the while trying his best to orient himself to his surroundings by looking for a street sign, a landmark, _anything_. 

…but he can’t make sense out of any of it. Not in the state of mind that he’s in. 

Theoretically speaking, their checkpoint is an easy one to get to. But in reality, it would take a _miracle_ for the both of them to make it there, whole. 

His lungs are set aflame in his chest, and the gunfire persists. It’s not so loud as before, so Hajime allows himself to ease into a lighter jog as the beginning of a sharp pain swells in his calf. When he can no longer hear the screams, he takes cover in a narrow back-street alleyway: it’s there that he falls on his ass, catches his breath, and continues to swipe through his phone with shaking fingers (the stabbing of pain coming from his left leg has almost reached a crescendo). He cranes his neck to try and get a better look at his injury and he knows on instant that he’s _royally fucked_. 

He’s grateful when his phone makes a sudden _ping!_ sound, displaying to him that Kuroo isn’t too far a distance from the alleyway that Hajime has found himself hiding in; certainly close enough to come help him, because he’s pretty damn sure that he can’t walk. _Okay_ , he needs to remain calm, even as his hypothesis is proven correct when he tries to stand back up, only to stumble gracelessly to the rigid ground. He taps on the phone icon—

“Not so fast,” something hard and cold is pressed to the back of his head. “You got guts, I’ll give you that.” The gun cocks. “Any last words?”

Hajime wants to scoff. How fucking cliché (what a way to go).

_Bang!_

**Paris, 2010**

It’s the start of a new decade and the whole-wide-world is celebrating. Tooru was right: Paris _is_ the perfect New Year’s destination. 

“Iwa-chan!” Tooru is clad in only loose boxers and that ridiculous alien-print T-shirt of his (Hajime is ashamed to admit that he’s wearing a matching one…). There’s a flute of champagne in each of his hands, their daintiness acting as a juxtaposition to long, calloused fingers. 

Joining him on the ridge of the quaint balcony, he passes one of the flutes to him. “Why didn’t you tell me that they started?” Whines Tooru, in that petulant manner of his. 

“You’re the one who said, and I quote, _In France, it’s illegal to watch fireworks without champagne, did you know?._ ”

Tooru sulks and Hajime hides a smile behind a sip of the fizzy drink. 

“So mean, Iwa-chan,” he scolds (though he’s smiling behind the tip of his flute, too), turning to stare at the night sky in awe. 

Meanwhile, Hajime continues to watch the other with ruminative eyes, striving to memorise the lines of his face. 

In a trice, Tooru becomes a burst of chromatic radiance; the second wave of the Parisian New Year’s light-show has begun.

From where he stands by the balustrade of the balcony, Tooru is less man and more Arch Angel. The beams from the fireworks cast an opalescent glow on his person, their shimmering sparkles bouncing off of his hair to crown him with a golden halo. 

_Bang!_

**Rio, 2015**

Oikawa’s entire body stiffly trembles. His eyes are big and he remains frozen in his spot. The gravel has blood splattered all over it, and he thinks he can see the man’s brains sliding out from around where the bullet is embedded into his skull. 

**Paris, 2010**

_Bang!_

“Iwa-chan?”

Hajime’s head is spinning when he looks up at Tooru, though not from the champagne (okay, maybe a _little_ bit from the champagne, but not entirely). “What is it, Trashikawa?”

Tooru laughs, and… is he crying? Hajime’s smile weakens.

“Tooru. What’s wrong?”

“I- I’m just so _happy_ , Iwa-chan.”

Hajime brings a hand to thumb away at his tears, the other soon to join so that he can cup the other’s cheeks and press their foreheads against one another’s. 

“Hajime?”

He hums quietly, eyes locked intently with Tooru’s.

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

_Bang!_

**Rio, 2015**

(Hajime was six years and three months old on the day that his grandmother said to him: _“Grief will drive the sanest of men to the edge of insanity. You remember that, Hajime.”_ A child, he was too young to fully discern the complexity of the words she had spoken to him. 

Ten years later found his mother in the ground, his father in an urn. Night after night he would lie awake in his bed, unable to fall asleep no matter how many sheep he counted (he had given up somewhere after a hundred and ninety-three). _Surely_ , sixteen-year-old Hajime had thought to himself, his grandmother’s words echoing in his ears, _I’m losing my mind_. But as time went on, so too did sleep gradually return to him; and just the same as he, his grandmother’s words were put to rest.)

When Hajime comes to, he’s laid out across a ratty old couch that’s plainly half-deteriorated. The room that he’s in doesn’t fair much better, and he thinks he sees a rat scurry from one end of the room to the other. His head is pounding, but at least it isn’t spinning anymore, though there’s a dull ache in his left leg ( _oh yeah, I got shot_ ).

When he looks down he’s surprised to find that someone has extracted the bullet and bandaged up the wound …effectively having saved his life. He tries to gain a better scope of the where he is, but his body has already reached its limit. The room begins to slowly close in on him, before speeding up into a brisk pace, until everything’s gone pitch-black. 

**Miyagi, 2018**

Tooru heard him before he saw him (it was the crunching of leaves under shoes that gave him away). His own movements were lackadaisically mechanical, but there was a certain comfort when he saw that Hajime’s were, too. 

It had taken over a decade for them to finally reach the finish line. Pity, he lamented: there would be no champion. 

Face to face they stood; mirroring younger, less jaded and more naïve versions of themselves. If he really wanted to, he could almost convince himself that this was just a distorted dream of a happy memory, from which he would wake up from in a warm, Parisian bed. He didn’t. 

He pointed his pistol at Hajime, the same one that he had pointed at him in Venice, seventeen years ago. Somehow, in its own, sick way, it was cathartic. 

“Only one of us is getting out of this alive,” Tooru’s index finger was damp with sweat from where it hovered above the trigger of his pistol. “You know that, right?”

Hajime swallowed thickly. “I know.”

“One of us is going to leave Miyagi on a bus,” he took the safety off. “ ...and the other in a bodybag.” Tooru felt drunk. His body hummed and everything was _so bright_ ; his pupils constricted in an effort to help keep him stable as he clung desperately to what little humanity was left in him. “It was always going to end like this, wasn’t it?” He laughed, brokenly maniacally. “I guess this really is goodbye.”

_Bang!_

**Paris, 2009**

When his flight lands, Hajime’s heart is pounding rapidly in his chest (way more that it has any right to be). His hands feel clammy, and he scorns the power that this man has come to lord over his head. He doesn’t actually, not really. Proof of that being the somersaulting of his heart when he hears a familiar, shrill, 

“ _Iwa-chan!_ ”

He’s barely able to register the man barrelling towards him, before he finds himself with an armful of Oikawa Tooru. 

“Not that I’m not happy to see you,” he locks his arms around the other man and buries his face into his neck, “because I _am_ …” breathing him in deeply, “ …but how the fuck did you get here? I haven’t even gone through customs yet, Shittikawa.”

Tooru flashes him a smug, cheeky smirk. “I have my ways, Iwa-chan~” 

_Of course you do._

_“_ …and, you know what they say: a man never reveals his secrets.” He grins, while all Hajime does is shake his head in response.

“Is that my _suitcase_?” He points at what is _most definitely his suitcase_. 

“Come along, Iwa-chan~” says Tooru, ignoring his questions as he leads Hajime by the hand. 

(When they bypass customs without any trouble at all, Hajime can’t help the slight sinking feeling he gets in his gut: a top agent of J.I.A. couldn’t pull off that type of shit, and he highly doubts a member of the Brazilian Intelligence Agency _could_. Just _who_ is Tooru working for? But then he’s shaking his head, squeezing Tooru’s hand, and looking fondly at him. He decides he doesn’t want to know. Not now. Not _ever_.)

Outside of the airport, Tooru hails them a cab to take them to the apartment they’d rented out: the same one they had chosen together, almost three years ago, in Acapulco. Hajime can feel his face grow warm at the memory, all the while his heart never have seized its somersaulting within the confines of his rib cage. He wonders if Tooru feels it, too. God, he hopes that Tooru feels it, too. 

Hajime is the one who pays the cabbie. Despite Tooru’s flimsy protests, there’s a pleased smile on his lips: it’s subtle, but it’s there. 

“So chivalrous, Iwa-chan,” Tooru compliments, the corners of his mouth widening, eyes forming crescent moons, while he holds on to Hajime’s bicep. 

“Shut up, Trashikawa.”

“Rude!”

Hajime rolls his eyes, snatching the key from the other’s hand amidst a flustered _hey!_ whilst walking down the hallway to the door of their apartment. At first, Tooru had wanted them to get a suite at some fancy, five-star hotel ( _My treat, Iwa-chan~_ ). Hajime, truth be told, had had no inherent issue with the idea. However, a suite was way too high in risk factor, and he had told Tooru as such. While it had put a bit of a damper on their mood, it hadn’t lasted long. The more time they spent wrapped up in one another’s arms, Hajime’s laptop between them as they browsed through a plethora of Parisian apartments, legs tangled up beneath the sheets, the giddier they became. _This is the one!_ Tooru had shouted as he jabbed a finger at the screen of Hajime’s computer, in spite of not once looking away from his face. 

(He still doesn’t know how the hell Tooru had been able to rent out that exact apartment, three years later.)

“Home, sweet home!” Tooru exclaims as they walk in through the door. 

It’s a far cry from a villa along the beach in Acapulco, but it’s luxurious in its own right: he marvels at the fact that the tiles on the floor are made out of _marble_. The king-sized bed has sheets woven out of Egyptian cotton, and there’s a mountain of goose feather pillows piled on top. There’s a decent sized kitchenette to the left of the front door (he chuckles to himself, reminded of a happy memory), and two long panes of stained glass serve as a narrow doorway to a balcony. It’s small, essentially one large room. Yet, to Hajime, the palatial apartment resembles a room out of Versailles. 

“Do you like it?” Tooru looks bashful, as though he had forgotten that they had picked out the place, together. 

There he stands: brown eyes looking into green, as though Hajime had given Tooru the stars, and he the sun to Hajime. 

“It’s perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Since this was written from Iwaizumi’s perspective (with minor exceptions), in 3rd person semi-omniscient, there’s a lot that’s missing in terms of continuity and plot-development, such as:  
> \- why is Yachi married to Kageyama?  
> \- what happened between 2015-2018?  
> \- What’s up with Sugawara?  
> \- Who IS Oikawa working for?!  
> Therefore, I’ve started working on some companion pieces for this AU.  
> It really did come out of nowhere. Originally, I had started it to play around with using tense as a literary device, and it just kinda snowballed from there. I was not expecting I’d get so invested in this :’)
> 
> And lastly, ‘Science’ by Allie X is the recommended listening if you want to reread it at some point ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed~


End file.
